Jimbo grabbed my wrists and hauled the upper half of me over his shoulder, the other half still stuck between sill and sash. “Hey, how ‘bout being careful!” “Too hard?” “I might wanna bear children one day. Jeez, you’re killing me.” I got unstuck all at once, which sent Jimbo and me tumbling to the grass. “Turtle, you still got everything attached to what oughta be?” He bent to help me up. I dusted myself off, but didn’t bother to check out the scrapes I could feel down my shins where they’d dragged against the sash. I began softly, “Bo, there’s something you got to know.” We dashed from shadow to shadow across the parsonage lawn to the neighboring yard where we huddled behind an old oak. Emerson’s truck hadn’t returned yet. “What? You don’t like the way I keep house?” “No, it’s …” I’d intended maybe to say then that I thought Mort and the rest of the boys—the ones who were grown men—might be stirring up some kind of trouble, real trouble, during the night.
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